Ringless
by C'sMelody
Summary: Strike had never known a love different from Charlotte's, and other thoughts that consume Strike's brain when a case fails to hold his attention.


**I've never written for this fandom before, but having finished ****_Lethal White _****prompted me to write this small piece. It's decidedly Strike's musings more than anything else. I just felt like checking up on our beloved characters after that seemingly happy ending, before everything goes wrong in book 5. (We all know this is going to happen, right? Rowling wouldn't let us be this happy and relieved for long.)**

**Unbeta-ed and written over the last two days at ungodly hours, so apologies if you find anything that makes your eyes burn.**

**Disclaimer: I'm going to be boring this time and just plainly say that I don't own anything.**

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**Ringless**

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Robin wouldn't want to get married again.

This thought came to him in the middle of a rather cumbersome case, a sort of Dodgy Doc 2.0, as he leafed through his notes. Summer was a bastard to him, Strike reckoned, as he rubbed his clammy palm against his trousers and felt the familiar throb on his leg. The sky was bleeding out on the horizon, the moon shy in its crescent phase, and this dim orange light cast inside the office forced him to squint.

Strike didn't want to get up again. He'd just come from the bathroom, and his leg had been screaming at him during his surveillance of Dodgy Doc 2.0. He could survive a few more minutes without the light. Besides, from there he had the best view.

Robin was sitting cross-legged just in front of the lovingly-nicknamed Fart Sofa, her rose blonde hair in a messy bun, papers spread all around her as she went over their newest murder case. Apparently, Billy's story had prompted many to rely on them for closure. Robin and Strike had been looking at old and cold cases, trying to bring peace to their clients' minds. Strike knew that, much as she tried to hide it, some of them ended up affecting Robin quite a bit. If he were being honest, he couldn't say he'd been much different.

It seemed to Strike that he'd blinked the last year away, with all its twists and turns, with Charlotte and Matthew attempting to make their lives even more complicated, and Geraint Winn's threat coming to fruition. Culpepper had had a field day over all of this, Strike mused with half a smirk.

Della had surprisingly been the one to put an end to her ex-husband's tirade by refusing to collaborate with him and actively backing up Robin. This, Strike knew, was because they had kept their promise and found Aamir for her. It mildly amused, mildly astonished Strike that Della would project onto Aamir the motherly attentions which had so brutally been denied to her after Rhiannon's suicide.

Robin leant forward to grab her tea, eyes never straying from the photograph in her hand. Her eyebrows joined together as she grabbed a small notebook and began scribbling on it. Strike's gaze was diverted towards her ringless finger, and once more he mused on how Robin's world must have been shaken with the way her marriage to Matthew had collapsed, with years invested in a relationship suddenly meaningless. These things tended to make the warmest hearts go cold, and Strike could hardly blame Robin for her disillusionment with marriage. Strike knew his sympathy came from shared experience, for while he'd never been married, he'd certainly been engaged and ready to take the next step with someone who would end up destroying them both.

Strike had no illusions about his relationship with Charlotte. He knew its unhealthiness — to put it mildly — came as much from him as it did from her. However, Strike also knew that he much preferred Robin's finger to be ringless. But these thoughts were privy only to his mind, for while both of them had remained surprisingly single — Strike decided that one-night stands certainly didn't count — nothing had happened, what with Matthew and Charlotte waging war on them. That didn't deter him from replaying the hug they'd shared on her wedding day, the smell of white roses assaulting his memory every single time he did, or the accidental grazing of lips outside of the hospital.

He knew he was waiting for her. Shanker had told him so over three months ago, when they'd visited Leda's grave together for her birthday. Dressed up smartly — or what Strike supposed would be considered smartly by Shanker — in clean jeans and a white shirt, with his unruly hair gelled back, he'd told Strike once more that Robin reminded him of Leda. He had also told him to stop being a cowardly bastard, to grow a pair. Shanker had relayed all of this while holding a bouquet of pink and white roses, tattoos peeking out from under his shirt, and the memory made the corners of Strike's lips twitch in amusement.

Strike had been so distracted by mentally asking Shanker why the hell did he feel the need to dress up for the occasion that he hadn't noticed Robin approaching, and only when she turned on the lights did Strike look up to see her smiling tiredly at him, resting against the door frame with her arms crossed. Strike pressed his fingers to his eyes to alleviate the burn, mentally admitting that yes, Robin was a sight for sore eyes every hour of every day, and he very well could not continue denying this to himself.

"I don't suppose you're thinking of charging a pair of glasses to the office?"

Strike grinned at her. "How did you know?"

"I'm an investigator, remember?" she told him with a grin of her own.

Comfortable silence fell between them, and Robin gave a small sigh as she sunk further against the door, her eyes closed. Shanker's voice kept hammering on in his head: _Reminds me of your mom. Your Robin. She's kind, isn't she? Like the way she wanted to save that kid. _

_And brave, _Strike mentally added. This was saying less than what he should be saying, but communicating feelings to Robin had always been a tough matter. Knowing Latin didn't automatically make you a poet, unfortunately. But Robin deserved it all, poetry and gallantry, which was more than what Strike could give her. _Not like she asked you to, you arse._

Strike grit his teeth, hand wandering to the back of his neck as he surveyed Robin, still silently resting against the doorframe as if waiting for him. It made him wonder if she had been waiting for long too.

_I love you, darling. One day you'll feel that way about somebody, _his mother's voice echoed back to him. Strike had blindly hung on to the idea that Charlotte had been that love for years, even after they'd broken up and she'd gone as low as marrying and carrying Jago Ross's offspring. He'd clung to the idea that love must be turbulent and all-consuming. Exhausting.

Robin cleared her throat as she finally moved away from the doorframe. "Should I run my notes by you?" she asked, already motioning to go and get them.

The last rays of sunlight embraced her right then, catching her hair on fire, and giving her a golden red glow. Strike blinked dumbly up at her, suddenly feeling very incoherent.

"No," Strike heard himself say. "No, we'll do that tomorrow. Tonight we should celebrate." This last word came with a grunt as he stood up by heavily relying on the table.

Robin looked puzzled. Strike could practically see the engines turning in her head, as she undoubtedly went through special dates and found nothing. Strike let her mull it over for a moment longer, allowing himself the time to consider his options. He could still back out now, make something up, make a joke of it. Let the doubts in his head prevail. Allow the constant _You're not bloody good enough, you old fucker_ to win, the idea of professionalism to drown his desires.

But Robin was standing there after what had probably been the longest day of her life, ready to work the night away to compensate for her absence that morning. It had taken a year of grief and disappointment. Of waiting. And Strike really loved that her finger was ringless, now symbolically as well. He intended to keep it that way.

He reached her side, saw her eyes look to him for an answer, and Strike decided to put her out of her misery. "Your divorce, Robin. We're celebrating your divorce."

Robin snorted and then beamed at him. Strike noticed how her right hand went to touch her ring finger on her left one for the shortest time. A year after having walked out on her failed marriage, and she was still fighting for her freedom. Robin had won the war, but he knew there'd be wounds to heal and habits to break.

Strike had never known a love different from Charlotte's, so for the longest time he had weighed whether he should let this die before it began, wither away like roses in winter, so that when the time came for them to go their separate ways, they'd do so as colleagues, as friends. Or would it be best to let the fire catch, burn away until all that was left were ashes and ruins?

_Grow a fucking pair, Bunsen, will you?_

Robin took his right hand tentatively in her left, searching his face intently, and Strike felt his eyes soften at her, at the spark that came from this simple touch. His doubts dissolved.

Blind faith.

"This alright?"

"Yeah."

He purposefully entwined their fingers together, feeling how her soft hand fit into his for the first time.

"Took you long enough," she said with a teary smile.

He kissed her ring finger. "Right you are."

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**And there you go. I'm not entirely happy with this, but I was writing in circles already and it was becoming annoying, so I stopped trying to change it. Hopefully someone will get something out of this. If anything, I hope it warms your hearts enough to survive this cold winter of waiting for the next book.**


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